


Five Times Illya Put Gaby First

by rebelliousrose



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Fashion & Couture, First Kiss, Five Times, Gen, Illya Whump, Research is my kink, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:02:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21941851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebelliousrose/pseuds/rebelliousrose
Summary: Five Times Illya Put Gaby First; classic Five Times format as a gift for Trabi. Merry Christmas!
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Comments: 12
Kudos: 90
Collections: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. Winter Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	Five Times Illya Put Gaby First

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trabi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trabi/gifts).



First Time

For a nice change of pace the mission has been absolutely simple, and Solo has set off from the beautiful lobby of their old friend, the Grand Hotel Plaza Roma with no more than a slightly creased tuxedo sleeve, Gaby’s beautiful green and rose Madame Grès evening gown is intact, the blood has been wiped off the heel of her shoe, and she and Illya are about to safely exit the hotel. 

As Gaby descends the staircase on Illya’s handsomely tailored arm, she sighs wistfully over the décor. The Plaza really does it up for Christmas, and the elegant red velvet lobby glows with banks of poinsettias and golden ribbon, and the staircase lions wear garlands of crisp-smelling greenery and berries. A chamber orchestra is playing revised modern standards in the nearest ballroom, and candles illuminate masses of roses, their heady scent drifting up the steps. 

Gaby pauses just a moment, as Illya signals the attendant for her wrap, and the orchestra changes songs; it’s “Cry To Me” and Gaby bursts into laughter. Illya’s mouth curves faintly, and he sweeps her toward the ballroom. “What are you doing?” she asks him. 

“They are playing our song,” he replies, stone-faced, turning her into his arms and finding the rhythm of the music. 

“I thought you didn’t want to dance?” Gaby says, bemused. 

”No. But you do,” Illya replies. 

Second Time

Gaby is tucked under an escalating amount of blankets, propped up on three pillows to help her breathe. Solo is forcing tea down her throat hourly, and Illya is giving her alcohol rubs to try and bring down the fever. Both of the men are tripping anxiously over each other to fuss over her, and during one of the rare periods where she isn’t asleep or in a fever delirium, she tries to insist that they leave her and go accomplish the mission. 

She wakes to Illya’s cold hand on her hot forehead. “How do you feel?” he asks, testing her flaming cheeks. 

”Horrid,” she answers, beginning another deep, empty cough. Illya scoops her into his arms and tucks her against his shoulder, stroking her hair and supporting her as the cough manifests in echoing whoops for breath. 

Exhausted, she lets Illya take all of her weight. “Where is Solo?” she whispers.

“He has gone for medicine.”

“What about the mission?” 

“I have made them understand that we must postpone until full team is available. It is ineffective to have less.” He settles his cool palm against her cheek and cradles her close. She lets him. 

Third Time

The door bangs open dramatically. “What is this?” 

Waverly arches his eyebrow at the piece of paper tossed abruptly onto his desk. “It’s a bill, Solo.” 

“I know it’s a bill. What’s it for?” 

“I believe that’s none of your business.” 

Solo juts his chin. “I’m making it my business. Why is UNCLE having Illya see a psychiatrist?” 

“Oh, it’s not UNCLE, Solo. He’s asked to on his own.” 

“But why? He’s fine,” Solo says stubbornly. 

Waverly peers over the top of his glasses. “I believe Miss Teller suggested he do so.” 

Fourth Time

Solo has returned from Brazil where the USA is working to destabilize the potential Communist influence on the regime of President João Goulart, with intelligence that the reigning Miss Universe, the lovely Iêda Maria Vargas, first Brazilian to win, is going to be murdered as a potential political protest. 

Gaby is deployed as her pageant-sponsored maid, Illya is her bodyguard, and Solo is Miss Vargas’ mock-fiancé, a position Gaby is sure he has taken far too much advantage of already, given the blush that lights Maria’s cheeks every time she glances at him. 

They are exiting the hospital where Miss Universe is fulfilling her duties of visiting the ill when the first shot rings out. A moment later and Gaby is smashed against the wall and Illya is a solid wall in front of her, returning fire. Gaby can’t see a thing, and pounds impotently on his back, as Illya emits a heavy grunt and thrusts back against her. 

She can hear Solo shouting, but her attention is drawn by the sudden stain spreading through the back of Illya’s jacket, and she yanks the sweater from her purse handle and applies hard pressure. He fires twice, as Solo shoots from the ground where he lies atop Maria Vargas. 

“Shooter is down,” Illya proclaims, releasing Gaby from the prison of his body and the wall. His wound is worse from the back than the front, and when she can move she realizes that the bullet has gone straight through his shoulder and out the back. 

“What did you do that for?” Gaby demands furiously, tearing his coat up the back with her knife and jamming the sweater back against the exit wound. “Sit down!” 

Illya complies, beginning to look a little gray about the lips. “I saw the sniper too late. His angle was not Vargas.” 

“What are you talking about?” Gaby demands.

“His aim was not on her. It was on you.”

Fifth Time

It’s dark, and very cold. Russia is always dark and cold. All the same, it’s home, and even though he’s only in SSR Moldova, there is a certain nostalgia. Illya is wary, since this meeting has been arranged by a message drop, not official channels, and has been very careful to exit unobserved the Romanian hotel he shares with Solo and Gaby. 

He leans against the railing of the bridge and pulls his cap low on his forehead. He’s gotten spoiled, with the warm-weather gear UNCLE provides, and the thin Soviet-issue peacoat is doing little to keep out the wind. 

The footsteps behind him make him straighten, peering into the pools of shadow between the bridge light posts. His contact is male, and is carrying a manila file. 

“Kuryakin,” the man announces. His accent is coarse, identifying him as lower-class, and he sports a neck tattoo and a three-day stubble. 

Illya nods. “Da.” 

“You came alone?” the contact asks. 

“As requested,” Illya responds. His nerves are on alert, telling him something indefinable, but dangerous, is present. “What do you want?” 

The man produces an oily smile. “Ah, my friend, it’s not what I want, but what you want.” 

“I have everything I want.” Illya returns. 

“Do you?” the contact responds. “I don’t think you do.” He hands Illya the file.

It flops open to reveal a series of photos clearly taken in Rome on their nascent UNCLE mission. Most of them are of Gaby, or Gaby and himself. The last one is in the hotel room they shared. Illya is bending down and Gaby is reaching up… “What is this?” Illya snarls. 

“A little bird gave these to me, a very useful little sparrow.” 

Illya’s fingers tremble on his thigh. “What do you want?” he demands again. 

“Comrade, you wound me. I just want what any good fellow Russian wants; a little warmth, an exchange of favors once in a while. One hand washes the other, and you keep what you want.”

“I will not be blackmailed.” 

“But are you willing to be alone? Because that’s very easy to arrange. Accidents can happen so easily, and lovely women are so… fragile.” 

“Who are you working for? KGB? Bolshoy Dom? MVD?”

“Oh, none of those, my friend. I am a… businessman, if you will.” 

“Good.” Illya is in motion before the other man can react, and with a nasty crunch the body slumps at his feet. Illya bends to search the corpse, and at the sound of a firm stride coming his way, his gun flashes into his hand. 

”Would you like some help taking out the trash, Peril?” Solo inquires urbanely from the darkness. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t shoot me again. I like this jacket.” 

“How did you get here?” 

Solo arches a skeptical brow. “You should know by now.” 

“You put another low-tech American tracker in my pocket?” Illya is outraged. 

“Of course not. It’s in your hat.” Illya snatches off his cap and glares at it in betrayal. “If you are finished mangling your abominable headgear, would you like to dispose of this?” Solo prods the corpse with his toe. 

In moments, the unlovely corpse is naked, searched, and tossed off the bridge to float peacefully down the Prut. 

Solo inspects the manila folder without comment and hands it to Illya with a lighter. “I assume you have an address for this gutter rat, so we can finish the job? And I can’t believe you wore that hat with that overcoat.” 

And The One Time He Didn’t

Illya bursts through the door of the hotel room, and Gaby nearly shoots him from reflex. He crosses the shabby little room in two long strides and sweeping the gun aside, crushes her in his arms. She starts to speak but he cuts her off, turning her face roughly up to him and setting his mouth against hers, hard. He’s kissing her urgently, with a groan of anguish. Gaby makes an incoherent sound and Illya immediately gentles his hold and his kiss, firm clasp across her back becoming tender, the pressure of his lips a query instead of a demand. It’s their first real kiss, and Gaby decides to not ask questions and just stay in the precious moment as long as she can with Illya.

**Author's Note:**

> Trabi, I was filled with trepidation when I got you as my draw- BNFs are the absolute hardest, and you know so much about things! Luckily I like research, and the Internet is a wonderful place for that. I had a hard time with this fic; for some reason the prompts just weren't speaking to me, until I realized that Illya always puts Gaby first. She's always been his priority, and once that clicked for me, it all fell into place and the thing wrote itself with a certain amount of intermittent swearing on my part. 
> 
> Because I love research and pretty pictures, here's Gaby's Madame Grès gown.   
> 


End file.
